


(almost) Spectacular

by TheAudity



Series: First Verse [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Alternate Timeline : Timeline One, Canon typical references to past trauma, Eliot Waugh's canonical melodrama, M/M, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:35:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24432946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAudity/pseuds/TheAudity
Summary: Having been a child with very little say in his life, Eliot Waugh took great pride in not letting anything or anyone disrupt his sense of control. Each and every element he displayed to the world was a carefully crafted decision, a means to an end. His clothing became his armor, his smile a tool to deflect anyone from thinking they really knew him, and his entire persona the greatest shield of all. What better way to guarantee no one could hurt you, than to leave the masses satisfied, but always assured that you would leave them first?Though, all things considered, it was nice to be reminded that he could still be surprised.(Alternatively, a series of one-shots, in companion to "First")
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: First Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1764481
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	(almost) Spectacular

**Author's Note:**

> This work is intended as a companion piece to my WIP, "First". It's important to me for First to maintain it's unreliable narrator style, so the entirety of that work will be told from Quentin's POV. However, I wanted to write some scenes from Eliot's point of view, things that Quentin wouldn't be privy to, for readers to get more insight should they so choose. 
> 
> (almost) Spectacular will always be marked as complete, as I don't know how many chapters it will be. The notes for each chapter will tell you where within First that chapter would fall, and nothing will be added here before the relevant companion information in First is posted. Thank you for coming to read this, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Chapter 1 of (almost) Spectacular falls after chapter 3 of First

I'm the one who can't believe in nothing 

unless it's right in front of me

You jumped the gun and you underestimated 

who you were supposed to be

-Aaron Sprinkle

-x-

Having been a child with very little say in his life, Eliot Waugh took great pride in not letting anything or anyone disrupt his sense of control. Each and every element he displayed to the world was a carefully crafted decision, a means to an end. His clothing became his armor, his smile a tool to deflect anyone from thinking they _really_ knew him, and his entire persona the greatest shield of all. What better way to guarantee no one could hurt you, than to leave the masses satisfied, but always assured that you would leave them first?

Though, all things considered, it was nice to be reminded that he could still be surprised.

Surprise had seldom held a positive effect in his life. The first time his father hit him, his budding crushes that he knew were all too wrong, learning he was telekinetic, had all been surprises, and while those surprises had brought him to where he was today, the road they took him through had been nothing short of hell. And yet, as he strolled down the bright morning sidewalks of Brooklyn in search of a tolerable alley to cast a portal from, that road felt comfortably distant. Suffering his past would _never_ be a fair price for becoming the man he was now, but in the afterglow, he could almost accept the cost. 

Who would have ever thought that Quentin, sweet, twitchy, headstrong little Q, would turn out to be a fucking magician. The anxious, tragically poorly dressed boy he’d only spoken to that first afternoon because he was bored, and appreciated the challenge of seducing a stressed out disaster of a human being with a poorly done tie. Though really, the finest knot wouldn’t have saved that mess of hideous striped polyester. If Eliot ever saw it again, he would burn it, and Quentin would eventually thank him for the act.

And that was the strangest part; his all-too-familiar game of get in, dazzle them, and get out, had become-

It had become an evening of conversation with someone who expected nothing from him.

It had been awkward, fumbling text messages with a man who typed like a toddler, and made him laugh nonetheless.

It became realizing that there was someone out there who wanted to spend time with him, who _didn’t_ want the Eliot Waugh party experience, and genuine, unexpected fear that he had hurt this friendship before it could take off. And wasn’t that a terrifying thought, _friendship_. The idea that there was a single soul in the universe who would have any interest in him whatsoever, outside of what his reputation had to offer. Yet, for once the universe was offering him something good, and the alarms had yet to go off telling him not to take it.

Eliot nipped the thought before it could properly distract him, lest it disrupt his casting. Portals were a bitch and a half when one wasn’t preoccupied, and he was already attempting this spell on no sleep, and with no idea where the fuck Mercury was at the moment. _No, focus on this now, finding where exactly Quentin Coldwater fits on your tragedy bingo card can wait_.

Two adjustments of circumstances later and Eliot was deposited outside Brakebills’ wards, as close to the Physical House as he could manage. Which, in actuality, meant two blocks of walking through an industrial hellscape before the beams and fences transformed into underbrush and oaks, before clearing out to a picturesque view of the first place in his life he had truly been able to call a home. Far enough from campus proper that he could come and go without drawing too much attention, and comfortably nestled within clusters of pine and flowered hedges, the Tudor structure stood proud, as though it’s interior wasn’t a hallowed hall of debauchery he had curated. Of course, it was a lie to say he didn’t draw too much attention; the campus wards were fully aware of all his comings and goings, but so long as he was discrete as far as the remaining student body was concerned, he and Margo were left to their own devices. An early assessment they had... _acquired_ , regarding their academic performance had stated that the faculty had considered moving him from the Physical Cottage entirely, due to ‘lowering the collective GPA of the entire discipline’, but decided otherwise after determining that he and his always emboldened friend would take the move as a challenge. Loathe as he was to admit it, they were right. Still, knowing they were under scrutiny did mean picking their battles, but with their luck, the constant appearances and disappearances of their duo simply added to their mystery.

Eliot would never admit it, but he did find the wards around Brakebills truly fascinating, had even spent a full afternoon studying them one afternoon. Admittedly, that wasn’t much time, but it was far more than he had ever put into studying anything for any of March’s exams. The wards worked on every level, though their psychic component was arguably the most interesting. A modified alibi spell existed around the entire school, one that all students, faculty, and alumni were keyed into. Yes, upon acceptance to this esteemed institute, mundane excuses were sent to family and friends, giving them a written reason for their loved ones departure so dull they wouldn’t dwell on it. But that was only half the spell; the other half was a compulsion, keeping outsiders from wanting to look too closely into any inconsistencies in stories. Essentially, as long as Eliot didn’t barge into any muggle gatherings shouting ‘I go to magic school” while levitating all the furniture, no one would question what he was studying, how he was able to traverse from upstate to the city as quickly as he did, or why he only offered the most vague stories of his academic life. Perhaps it was their dual nature of armor and performance that spoke to him; a membrane that could only be permeated by a select few, filled with secrets one could only dream of scratching the surface of. Perhaps he was more excited than he should admit to be keeping one secret less.

Friday mornings were comfortable at the Cottage. At least, they were by this time. Late enough that his fellow housemates were attending lectures he wouldn't be caught dead in, and early enough that anyone who had a free period wasn't lingering in the common areas quite yet. It was for their own good, really, as he and Margo, his Bambi, had claimed these spaces as their morning domain early on. A space where they would sprawl upon the assorted sofas, entangled in one another’s limbs and casually discussing the comings and goings and dirty laundry of whoever they felt like discussing. So, it was no surprise that Margo was ready and waiting when he crossed the threshold of their shared home. Perfectly positioned in her armchair by the fireplace, more a hawk than her namesake deer, watching and waiting. She was the only student in sight, save for a few stragglers making their way out with a last minute mug of coffee, but they all knew well enough to leave through the side and back exits, and let Margo rule her domain in peace.

Eliot smiled, casually, while she batted the deceptively innocent lashes or her dark, doe-like eyes. Bambi indeed, he thought, as he headed to the bar. She undoubtedly was preparing to interrogate him about his newest toy, and get a play-by-play of his night if possible. Hopefully, she would be more amused by the lack of cocks in his story after a glass of her favorite chardonnay. Of course she would see right through him, but with any luck, she would indulge him nonetheless. After all, what was friendship but a series of indulgences?

Once the last of the remaining second year students trickled out, she finally spoke "So, your muggle manage to keep up alright?" She teased, voice ringing out across the entire first floor of the cottage. The new first year class wouldn't be assigned disciplines for another few weeks, and the third year class was all on a research trip with Van der Weghe, so she at least did him the favor of allowing him some discretion, regardless of volume. If word got out that Eliot Waugh was involved with a non-magical adept, the Brakebills gossip mill would run wild. If word got out that he was leaving campus to see said non-magical adept, and they weren't even fucking, that rumor mill would undoubtedly implode. He kept her waiting for a response, perhaps to keep her on her toes, perhaps to organize his own thoughts, while he selected a new bottle. The one they picked up from that vineyard in Spain over spring break would be nice.

"Bambi, he does have a name" He chastised lovingly, as he searched for his favorite corkscrew. The two of them had an entire language beneath their veneer of sarcasm, and it was a privilege to be the only person who knew she was actually asking _'is this a long term thing, or do I get to have my best friend back now?'_.

Any inkling of vulnerability well hidden, she scoffed. "Please, like we've ever cared about those before. All I'm saying is, if he kept you out all night he'd better at least give decent head." There were no hidden messages there, at least. Her grin was rapacious, hungry for details before she would share any tales of her conquests. Or at least, of last night's shenanigans at the house. Idly, Eliot wondered if she'd made a move on the cute blonde in the new class yet. It seemed unlikely, she was at least doubly as high strung as his own nerd, definitely a long game. Eliot, handing Margo a glass, found himself at rare loss for words. He attempted to keep his expression relaxed, unaffected, but some part of his inner monologue must have shown. She widened her eyes slightly, accepting her wine.

"Jesus's tits, you were gone all night and you didn't fuck his brains out? What the hell Eliot?"

He winced. This was a conversation he had very much hoped to avoid, but her target was set, and all he could do was go on the defensive. "Well, maybe I've emotionally matured. I don't have to have sex with someone to enjoy their company." 

"Since when?" She leveled. And, fair, all past evidence pointed to his claim being complete bullshit. "Since when do you see the same guy three times and _not_ hook up? Look, El, I don't know what's gotten into you, but pull your shit together. You're not seriously catching feelings on me, are you?"

"Oh, so it's a problem now?" He seethed, only just holding his tone back from being truly cutting. For need of something to do with his hands, he turned and returned to the bar to pour himself a glass. "Last I checked, you were the one who wanted me out of your hair."

One didn’t need to know Margo in the slightest to feel her roll her eyes at his back, despite her voice remaining perfectly even. "Yeah, well that was when I thought you were just getting your dick wet, not hosting a freaking tea party." He kept his back to her, focus held on the solid oak countertops he had brought in during his first semester, and the cruel reality set in that despite claiming to be the hosts of Brakebills’ greatest parties, they had no proper space to entertain from. He’d hosted many a performance from behind these counters, carefully constructing an ebb and flow of emotion from their guests. She always did appreciate a touch of performance, it kept any of their disagreements from feeling too real. But this one felt a little less in his control. 

He wasn't catching feelings, he just enjoyed Quentin's company. He certainly wasn't letting anyone get between him and his friendship with Margo, there was just something light about being around Q, something easy. Eliot felt like he could relax around him, in ways that he couldn't around even Bambi. It didn't mean his love for her was any less, or that he would have to choose between one or the other, especially not now that Quentin was one of them. Quentin was just-

Oh god. He was catching feelings.

He and Margo had never been ones to let silence linger, not without establishing a proper mood first, and this one had gone on long enough. Eliot hadn't heard her get up, or pad across the room, heels abandoned by her makeshift throne, but he did feel the warmth of her body lean against his back, her hand draped over his shoulder.

"El, I'm sorry, I just don't want to see you get hurt. I'm sure he's hot, if you're that hung up over him, but I need to know you're being careful." More reflexively than anything, he relaxed, and turned to wrap his arms around her waist.

"There's nothing to forgive Bambi. And don't worry, I am." And he was. Quentin wasn't some mundane outsider who would never understand their world. He was one of them, and Margo would know. Just as soon as he confirmed he hadn't broken any school bylaws by showing magic to someone uninitiated. Their usual games of seeing what they could get away with around the mundane population were one thing, but undoubtedly confirming the existence of magic was possibly another.

She grinned, and began pulling him back to their kingdom within the common area. "Good. Now, let me catch you up on what you missed last night. You would not believe how badly Todd cocked up with Hoberman's latest batch of edibles-"

-x-

Hours later, after successfully avoiding Sunderland’s assembly on planning their thesis projects and haphazardly reviewing the lecture notes from the last week he would never admit to having, Eliot found himself staring at the darkness of his ceiling, unable to sleep. The thing was, he thought, good things never lasted for people like him. 

Sure, sometimes he got lucky, but only if he didn’t let his need evolve past the surface level. His friendship with Taylor, ruined by a desperate need to be hated a little less. His hopes of his family ever loving him, destroyed long before he understood how he wasn’t like the rest of them. His hopes that something magical would happen to him and change his life for the better, shattered like the cracked screen of a young boy’s phone, dropped moments before the bus crashed into him. So far, Margo had been the only exception to the rule. Though, he suspected the universe hadn’t found a way to rip her from him yet only because their friendship was based on being fabulous mega-bitches, cocaine, and avoiding any and all sorts of real conversation. Or perhaps the Universe was too afraid of Bambi to tear something she deemed worth protecting from her talons. That sounded more like her.

That wasn’t to say there wasn’t incredible depth to his friendship, his codependency, with Margo. They were cut from the same cloth, all armor and bravado, though hers more authentic than his, and being forced to strip down and bare their souls, the secret parts of themselves even they refused to acknowledge, did a lot to fastrack a relationship. They had an understanding of one another, a mutual need for a companion who could make them feel on top of the world, while remaining completely separate from it. They also had a mutual understanding to never discuss their innermost truths again. He and Quentin had no such understanding, and that made him dangerous.

So what hidden weapon did Quentin carry? Would he come bearing his own blade, or simply the tools necessary to dig the ones he already carried deeper?

Possibilities spun unbidden around him, some realistic, some absurd and horrifying. Maybe Brakebills had already found him, and found him wanting. Maybe Quentin was just a two-bit hack, someone with enough of a spark to do party tricks but not enough to ever be a true magician. Or perhaps he had been a Brakebills student before, and was expelled and wiped for- for plotting world domination or something. True, Henry didn’t care what you did with magic after leaving, but so long as you were a student this institute _owned_ you. Still, Eliot knew that possibility was ridiculous. He and Quentin couldn’t have been more than a year or two apart in age, were he a student here, Eliot would have seen him before. No, what was more likely was that he was actually a hedge plant, set up by some random coven to get more spells for his fellow bottom feeders by any means necessary. Only, God, that was an even _more_ ridiculous idea. He had been the one to approach Quentin, and dear Q probably couldn’t seduce his way out of a paper bag, let alone into a complex heist. Still, thought after thought came, and though he could let go of the possibilities, he couldn’t let go of his fear.

Fine, he was paranoid. Extremely paranoid even. He had many flaws, and was in the perfect state of mind to reflect on each and everyone one of them in excruciating, agonizing, detail, but self delusion had never been one of them. He was an emotionally repressed closet case, and the most flamboyant, lively host this school had ever seen. He was a master of cutting off unwanted social attachments, and a failure at cutting off the part of himself that wanted to say _‘but why don’t you stay anyways_ ’ every damn time. He was a scared boy denying himself anything and everything. He was an addict. He was a collection of every single shitty thing life had seen fit to throw at him. So really, was it paranoia if the universe had taught him not to expect anything from it? _‘Good things never last, why would you expect anything different now?_ ’

-x-

The following morning brought brunch in SoHo, at some restaurant Eliot couldn’t be bothered to remember the name of, but it was posh and expensive and vaguely French enough to stay in his and Margo’s rotation. Plus, their champagne selection was _fantastic_.

Margo beamed at him from across a table so small it could only belong in a restaurant that charged $24 for a cheese plate. She had some deliciously wicked ideas for the trials that she was planning on pitching to the third year class, and tradition dictated that they would ignore all her beautiful, psychopathic ideas, but listening to her run through them was refreshing. This entire brunch was literally, the two of them hitting refresh. It was their little ritual; they would bicker, go out, and pretend their individual problems were nonexistent while treating one another to some lavish outing. Of course they would never _actually_ pay for it, so really it was more that they would trade off who’s turn it was to have their getaway spell prepared. Today’s scheduled spellwork was nothing special, just a basic illusion and a credit card that no one would realize was actually a business card for a tax attorney near Canal. Definitely a step down from their last post-fight brunch, where Margo had a golem of herself spill wine on her dress, and strip in the middle of the restaurant while he and the real Bambi dashed out. They never did learn the fate of the Margolem, but hoped she was running free and leaving a trail of broken hearts behind her. More likely, the living clay she was crafted from ran out of juice and she was a puddle of silt in New York’s sewer system, but he chose to believe the former. Anyways, yes, this would be far less exciting. What could Eliot say, he didn’t really have the energy to plot better.

Unfortunately, as vibrant as Margo was, despite her narrative being as sharp and cutting as her flawless red lip, Eliot wasn’t present on more than a surface level. Even as cleaned up and coordinated with his best friend as he was, his mood wouldn’t have gone unnoticed, even if Bambi couldn’t read him like the PA essays they always pretended they didn’t need. She wrapped up her story, “and then, we convince those little shits that they have to blow a horse. I haven’t decided if we let them go through with it or not, but either way the look on their faces will be priceless”, and watched him for a reaction. He laughed, but it was an automatic thing, far from the scathing addition he would have provided any other day, and she was clearly unimpressed. Still, he thought as he halfheartedly poked at his smoked salmon buckwheat crepe and fennel salad, he wouldn’t trade her unimpressed stare for anything in the world. Margo Hanson was a queen by every measure but blood, and she did not let others enter her kingdom lightly. If she was judging you, truly judging you, not the trivia gossip they exchanged about anyone and everyone, it meant she cared and you should be grateful. 

Still, it was unfair to her. This was supposed to be time for them, to celebrate their friendship and be frivolous, to reconnect after a few days of neglect. He was supposed to embellish her stories with his own biting commentary, share some delicious insight on some first year gossip she hadn't picked up on yet, perhaps find ways to coerce students who hated one another the most to be trials partners. What did she get instead? His attention, sure, but other than that, only the occasional "oh, very interesting" and an appropriate nod. She deserved better than for him to still have his head up his ass, and she knew it.

“El, Honey, I’m gonna need you to grow a clit and talk to me. What do we need to do to get you out of this funk?”

She spoke in tones only she could pull off, equal parts concerned and done with your bullshit. Unfortunately, Eliot was physically incapable of admitting to others when their concern was valid. Something about nearly two decades of toxic mid-western repression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about Bambi.” He looked at her head on, which was in hindsight, his first mistake. His facade was brilliant, almost spectacular, but it had cracks, and she had an uncanny ability to see all of them. It was a fair trade, he could see hers just as clearly, and usually neither of them would comment. Usually there wasn't a reason to.

She scoffed. “Oh please, cut the shit already. You've got more of a hard-on for brooding than Jon freaking Snow.”

“I do have the hair for it...”

“You do, but that’s not the point.” She leaned in closer, her petite frame more intimidating than it had any right to be. She was a firecracker, he thought. Small and delicate, incredibly beautiful, and capable of destroying everything around it if mishandled. She was the best damn thing in his life.

Eliot reached into his pocket for a cigarette, more to do something with his hands and to avoid this conversation for a bit longer than anything else. What did it matter that they were inside? They were in a supposedly 'authentic' French bistro, if the owners didn't expect smoking they should have picked another country to try and recreate. It didn't matter though, his pocket was unexpectedly empty. No, not unexpectedly, he'd left the pack at Quentin's apartment. Quentin, who made fun of him for smoking expensive hipster brands because he had been too afraid to admit he preferred the same Camels he used to steal from his mom's purse. Quentin, who he had no framework for figuring out. Quentin, who in all likelihood was just as floored by magic as he seemed, though Eliot had no way of actually knowing. Quentin, who he should have told Margo everything about by now, but he couldn't. “I just...I don’t know what to do.”

Her eyes softened, a rare change of expression is suspected only he was privy to. “Is this about your boy? Shit, you’re actually into him, aren’t you?”

And how the hell was he supposed to answer that? _'Honestly I just thought he would be someone fun to mess with a few times, but it's getting complicated'_ , or maybe, ' _I know it's dumb. At a first glance, he's really nothing special, but he makes me feel more real than I have in years, and it scares the absolute shit out of me'_ , or perhaps even ' _against my better judgement, I've grown attached, and know this will come back to haunt me'_. He sighed. Each option was more vulnerable than the last, and all better locked behind his lips. “It’s- maybe a little,” maybe a lot, he knew “but, not really?

The problem wasn't really Quentin, it was a lack of knowledge. Eliot may have curated the image of someone above caring, but he wasn't a fool. He knew life wasn't going to just hand him an adorable, anxious nerd who ticked off all of his boxes, enjoyed his company, and turn around and say 'hey, he's also got magic!'! There was always a catch. Perhaps the magic alone was a catch. He had overheard Todd telling some anxious first years (what they were doing in the cottage, he didn't know, and he had been too tired to care) that while it wasn't expressly allowed, there was no reason they couldn't tell their mundane families what they were really doing, it was just discouraged. But now, Quentin wasn't mundane, and he wasn't at Brakebills. So either he wasn't on their radar yet, which meant all he had done was jump the proverbial gun, no big deal, or Quentin was conning him, and Eliot was risking expulsion and memory loss. He had seemed to pick up on that first spell too easily, though that may have been a revisionist memory. Either way, it was a gamble, and he'd always been terrible at betting.

"I just feel sort of, impotent?’ He finally said, completely oversimplifying his thoughts, but it was the best he could do.

“‘Cause you’re not getting laid.” And sure, she was going for levity, trying to lighten the mood he had oh so successfully been bringing down, but Bambi might have had a point.

“Fuck, maybe." He let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding, shoulders collapsing under a weight of his own making. "I don't know, I just can’t shake the feeling that I can’t do anything.”

“Okay," She leaned back, all power and a healthy unwillingness to back down from a challenge, "then let’s do something.”

And that was the Bambi he fell in love with, the person who held the other half of his soul . Honestly, fuck the idea that soulmates had to be romantic. He smiled, feeling a little more centered. Nothing had actually been resolved, but she had an overwhelming ability to make you feel more in control by simply feeding off of her sense of control. “Got anything in mind?”

“Dealer’s choice babe, but preferably something really stupid.” Her grin was the same wicked one she donned last December, when Evan, a run of the mill cock of the week who had somehow stuck around for a month, cheated on her with Rebecca, and Margo had dragged him into her revenge proceedings. Her plan had ended with Jason lost in the hedge maze for three days, completely naked and only able to speak in squeaky toy noises, and Rebecca in Margo's bed, so satisfied that she never returned to Evan. Or any other man, come to think of it. The point was, she wasn't offering some idle promise. This was a god damn blank check, and she was all in for any amount.

Only, this wasn't a problem he could solve with an elaborate revenge plot. Or even a half-assed revenge plot. Everything came down to Eliot not having enough information, and there wasn't exactly a single source he could reference of magical adepts in the area to see if Quentin Coldwater was on some sort of black list exactly-

Except son of a bitch, there actually was. And he was a complete idiot for not thinking of it sooner.

“What about breaking into Henry’s office?” Eliot looked up, aiming for casually nonchalant, but overshooting. Margo's eyebrows shot up, clearly six steps ahead of him and already considering contingencies and all the ways this could blow up in their face. Possibly literally.

“I’m sorry _what_? Jesus Eliot, you’re supposed to say you want to drag the waiter out back and blow him, or rob a bank or something. The Dean? Really?”

“He has the best scotch on campus.” He whined. Margo looked him up and down, then relaxed. She was smart enough to know that was complete bullshit. Well, not complete bullshit, Henry Fogg did have the best scotch on campus tucked in a hidden drawer, but she knew that wasn't why he wanted to break in. However, the excuse gave her plausible deniability, a small favor. Eliot had been a lousy enough friend this week, he could give her this at least. She wouldn't know his actual mission, and she wouldn't ask.

“Fair. So, is this a two man job, or do we want outside help?”

Eliot recoiled. Who the hell would he trust, who the hell would _Bambi_ trust, to join in their duo? They were an unstoppable power couple, and anyone else, regardless of discipline, would only be dead weight. “Ugh, really? From who?”

“That traveler kid could be helpful.” She gestured with her fork, despite her brunch being long since finished. Like himself, she was also most likely still holding it simply to hold _something_. Magicians and idle hands did not mix well, physically or metaphorically. 

Still, he blinked. “Victoria? Hasn’t she hated us since we one upped her and Josh’s tragically blase little Bacchanal last year?” Their excuse for a Bacchanal has been an embarrassment at best, and an insult to Dionysus at worst. Really, he and Bambi had done everyone a favor with their celebration. At least Hoberman hadn’t minded being completely outshined, but Hoberman allegedly had a threesome with psychic twins at their party, so, that checked.

This time it was Margo’s turn to recoil. “Ugh, God no. Apparently we’ve got a second one in the new class, overheard Vic telling Fogg about him earlier this week. Penny, I think? Whatever his name is, he’s fuckin’ hot.”

The name did sound familiar, though to be fair he hadn’t paid much attention to the new class at all. None of them really stood out in quite the way he was interested in. But Penny, “Is he the tall one with the great scarves and the generally shitty attitude?” Margo nodded, otherwise preoccupied with her mimosa, but her eyes said _‘yep, that’s the one’_. Eliot couldn’t help but nod. Yeah, he was pretty hot. “Good to know he’s around as a possible resource, but I don’t think we need him for this one. Henry would be an idiot to not have some anti-traveling wards in place, and if we can find a way in, we can probably spin this as a practical alternative to that essay Sunderland wants.”

“Already assuming we’re going to get caught?” Margo laughed, and Eliot grinned. There was no way they were going to finish this job without getting caught. No, this entire job would be framed around delaying being noticed, not getting in and out completely undetected. Neither of them had the patience nor the interest to plan that well, and even if they did, it would still likely be an impossible task. The only way to get in unnoticed would be to shut down the wards for the entire campus. 

“Honestly, I’m surprised the faculty isn’t trying to stop us already”

She exhaled, unimpressed with his conclusion, but seemingly in reluctant agreement. “Eh, fair. Now, finish your crepe, I know you cocked out on getaway plans and I have an idea involving at least four car alarms, the WASP in the corner starting a screaming match, and a dozen live chickens materializing in the kitchen.”

-x-

  
  


The office of Dean Henry Fogg was an exceedingly comfortable place. The windows were enchanted so that the light filtering through would always be a soft golden yellow, regardless of the time of day. Sage green walls provided an additional sense of calm, and the dark wooden cabinets and trim made the room feel rich and luxurious. Fogg had not one, not two, but _five_ enchanted globes in the room, each spelled to locate different types of magical adepts, but all making him appear all the more important because _only important people owned physical globes, right_? It was a room that made you feel enveloped in something greater than yourself, something grand and mystical and made you ready to throw yourself in headfirst.

In short, it was the perfect camouflage to make prospective students sign away any and all regards for their safety and independence without a second thought.

The Dean himself was off campus that afternoon. One rumor said he was meeting with a former professor in the hopes of convincing her to come back. Another said he was just hungover from last night still. Eliot was more than happy to work with either. Regardless, getting into the office itself was never going to be the hard part of this job. Students were always welcome to bring their concerns to the head of Brakebills, even if those concerns would undoubtedly go ignored. All Margo had needed was a basic, year one unlocking charm to get in, complete with her mandatory muttering of "alohamora, bitches". Eliot didn't get the reference, despite Margo's many attempts to explain it to him. Letting her do so would have been easier, but it was more amusing to watch her roll her eyes at him for the hundredth time than to retain that particular piece of geek trivia.

So, yeah. Getting into the office was child's play. Getting their hands on the admittedly well hidden bottle of Macallan single malt would be a bit more of a challenge, but Margo was already on it. Getting into the Dean's records, well, there was a reason Eliot had tasked himself that job beyond giving Margo an out should this job go cocks up.

The magical underground had always had a strong infrastructure. Places like Brakebills couldn't exist otherwise, what with the need for donors and boards of directors and all that went into pretending to prepare the next generation to take on the world. But while that infrastructure was strong, there was nothing built upon it. Making anything of yourself in the world of magic wasn't about how good you were, it was about who you knew and what you could offer them. In a society where money was meaningless and power was always at your fingertips, the only currency that mattered was knowledge, and the Dean's office at Brakebills happened to house the closest thing to a census for magical adepts across North America. Was it complete? Of course not, people always slipped through the cracks; people who had a touch of aptitude, but who lacked the life experience necessary to bring it into life, people who found their talents and went so deep underground in hedge society they were never heard from again, people with subtle abilities that manifested enough to affect their minds and bodies but not enough for them to understand why, who feared they were genuinely mad. The system was far from perfect, and no one cared enough to try and fix it. He certainly didn't. Regardless, an incomplete record was better than none, and this incomplete record was the greatest anyone could expect. The filing cabinets that lined the walls, only conspicuous for their polished wood finish and antique brass hardware, held the names, academic records, and locations of every past and present student this school had seen, plus records on magicians deemed to be too great a threat to introduce to the campus. All of it was twelve inches away, and locked behind a wall of glowing blue lines that could easily evaporate him. Or turn him into a frog. Or just paralyze him until Henry returned. The outcome depended on which layer he messed up on. This was definitely going to be difficult, except-

“Jesus El, you can’t be serious.”

Eliot glanced over his shoulder to where Margo crouched. She was already halfway through reversing the planar compression that allowed the Dean's narrow drawered writing desk to double as a full drink station. She was staring at him, wide eyed and palpably concerned. He turned away from her and adjusted his tie, a gesture he had conditioned himself to associate with slipping his bravado back in place.

"Now now Bambi, we need to make sure we search thoroughly, I'm pretty sure that plane you're decompressing isn't where he keeps the good stuff. Also, don’t worry about me. It looks like Henry was hungover when he last put these up. Or possibly still drunk. This’ll be distressingly easy "

Faintly, he could just hear her muttering under her breath, _"-better be fucking worth it you dumbass"_ , before she turned her attention back to the desk. The less she saw, the better. It sucked, but technically she still owed him for when he spent half an hour entertaining Todd of all people at the knowledge kids house while she did god only knows what.

While Margo turned her attention back to the drawer that everyone pretended wasn’t an alcoholic’s wet dream on the inside, Eliot turned his focus back fully to the wards before him. Poorly applied or not, spell deconstruction did require a fair bit of finesse. Fortunately, he had a certain knack for this. Not wards, necessarily, but taking things apart. In general, if something had multiple components, Eliot Waugh could usually find what made it tick. The same tricks that worked for deconstructing recipes, the elements of a perfect outfit, a firm body beneath his hands, translated surprisingly well to wards. He just needed to take his time, nudge at each individual layer gently, let the existing spellwork tell him what it needed to fall apart instead of forcing something into place that didn't work. It wasn't easy, might be impossible for him were he not already interested in the campus wards beforehand, but it was doable. Just, time consuming.

Eventually, the top few layers of wards fell away. Were he not still committed to coming and going unnoticed, Elit would have possibly felt obligated to write to Brakebills alumni board regarding the serious lapse in security, but that would require caring a bit more. The first layer was a variation of the personnel wards around the school, keyed only to few administrators. The next was more subtle, and felt much like cracking an elaborate safe. After that, he fell into a rhythm, till the only remaining spells were ones to protect the records they contained from the elements. They were old, and simple enough that leaving them intact wouldn't impede his work in the slightest. He would just need to account for them while casting his modified locator spell on the records. W

"You almost done? 'Cause there's only so long I can pretend I'm not done with this decompression before I freak." Margo groaned. He hummed in response, focusing on transitioning from popper twelve to twenty-eight, and getting the alignment of his pinkies just right. The tension, his intent, filled his hands to the brim, then dispelled itself as suddenly as a whisper in a quiet room. If the name he sought appeared anywhere in those records, he would know soon. For a moment, he feared that he had been fed a false name by his...friend? Subject of investigation? Ill advised budding crush? It didn't matter, what mattered was that his name was too unfortunate to actually be real, of _course_ it was a pseudonym. Only, the spell completed it's cycle far sooner than Eliot expected, and the top left-most cabinet flew open, almost hitting him in the chest. The paper that popped out was one of the first few. Had he opted to do a manual search, it would have been among the first he would have found. He almost prayed it was a new addition, but settled on hoping. Margo glared daggers into his spine, urging him to hurry the fuck up, and Eliot could feel his heart pounding right against her blades. 

Had Quentin showed up on one of Henry's globes after last night? It would make sense, and maybe he was being reviewed to be tested next year. That could be good news, though more complicated. Sure, he would need to keep Q from learning about Brakebills for a year, and try to keep him away from hedges in the meantime, but he would be ready for next year. That wouldn’t be such a bad thing, most students here at least suspected they were different long before confirming that magic was real. By then, he would undoubtedly understand the need for secrecy on Eliot’s part, everything would be alright.. Carefully, he removed the single sheet from the drawer, and printed across the top in dark green ink was _'Quentin Makepeace Coldwater'_ , and firstly, fuck his parents. Secondly, he was real, he was tangible, and the form wasn't stamped with giant red letters screaming _'Potential Future Serial Killer: Do Not Admit'_. Only, it wasn’t a record of existence, it was a record of examination.

Swallowing the growing pit of dread in his throat, Eliot skimmed the document without much fanfare. This was fine, he told himself, he would just need to plan his next step. People failed exams all the time, and Quentin seemed the sort of anxiety ridden puppy who caved under pressure. Maybe there was some precedent for retesting students who didn’t pass the first time, or perhaps the specialist who wiped him had been overzealous. Eliot could take the time to second guess why he cared later, why he didn't just let him crawl for scraps like all the other kids who didn't actually have what it takes later, ideally over Henry's excellent alcohol. Now though, he might as well see where Q missed points, maybe help him to-

Only, he had passed.

Gracelessly, and certainly unwelcome, Eliot's brown furrowed. This didn't add up. The Q he knew, not well, but well enough, was a nerd of the highest order, was overjoyed and alight with the smallest inkling of magic, there was no way he wouldn't be here if he hadn't passed. Perhaps it was a misprint? Sure, the records were probably magically produced, but anyone who studied magic knew how unreliable it was, or- or he could just read the note in the lower right corner, scrawled in Henry Fogg's familiar hand.

_'Mr. Coldwater- passed with acceptable, though underwhelming scores. Admission denied due to refusal to comply with school policy; ref: Student Handbook pg. 47, section 12.b.; Psychotropics and Spellcasting'_

Oh.

-x-

What better way to guarantee no one could hurt you, than to always be assured that you would leave them first? It seemed there was an answer to that; don't let them get close enough for you to leave them at all.

Even lounging before the fireplace, accompanied by his other half, drinking some truly spectacular single malt, Eliot felt empty. Margo, ever the enabler, bless her, poured them each an additional two fingers, her lips only slightly pursed in judgement. Her dark eyes reflected gold in the firelight, and he was reminded yet again of the fire she contained, hidden behind designer labels and a perfect contour. Were this any other night, they would be laughing, or at least plotting, while sharing their spoils. Were this any other night, he would whisper something witty to her, something about the state of magical education and how good drinks deserved to be better protected, and his Bambi would laugh, and reply with something inappropriate about better uses for protection, and they would never let anyone know that their miniature heist had actually been a struggle. For now though, his melancholy demanded an audience, and he had not the heart to deny it. It would pass though, it always did.

Margo swirled her glass and sighed, a long and dramatic exhale. "Well, I've hit my threshold for pretending your Edward-levels of brooding are anything but a buzzkill, and my threshold for you not telling me shit won't be far behind. So you can tell me what you're getting into, or I can go finish this glass upstairs. If you're gonna keep moping, my bathtub will definitely be much better company."

He rolled his head to the side to eye her, and she watched him with bright intent. Eliot's tongue felt heavy in his mouth, weighted by a story he didn't have the energy to tell, he'd told it too many times already. Boy meets boy. Boy thinks for half a second he can be happy. Boy is proven wrong. Life goes on.

"There's really nothing to say. I had something I'd hoped to find, and I didn't find it. Simple." The lie flowed easy, smooth. Though it wasn't really a lie, was it. Margo eyed him, unimpressed, but let it go. Still, she was right, he was lousy company right now, and good drinks deserved good times. She stood, leaning over him for a moment before making good on her promise.

"Listen, you absolute cock. You need to be a sad sack, that's fine, but you'd better come find me when you get your head out of your ass, okay?" The unspoken _'I love, you, and I'm worried'_ of their secret language only apparent in the sudden softness of her voice, a perfect juxtaposition to her choice of words. He smiled, a little less forced than before, and sat up to press his lips to her forehead.

"What would I do without you, Bambi?"

"Suffer in silence, probably." she teased, before stepping back. He didn't turn to watch her amble up the stairs, to catch the moment where she stopped on the aisle to look back at him before their line of sight would be lost. He could hear it in the pause of her footsteps regardless.

Margo made her exit, and Eliot watched the flames before him eating away at the magically fulfilled supply of logs and kindling that made it's core. There was probably a metaphor in there somewhere, magic being both the cause of and solution to the problem of the dwindling supply of wood, but he didn't have the energy to dwell on it. 

Quentin had been offered a place here, and Quentin had turned it down. What the fuck did that mean was next? As far as Eliot knew, there was no precedent for offering second chances to rejected students, and there was no way to broach this subject with the Dean without admitting to breaking into their records. Was it really worth it? Sure, Eliot had learned his worst fears were truly unfounded, but his position was just as terrible as before, only now he had the misfortune of knowing it. God, he was an idiot.

Fucking with muggles was nothing new to him. He and Margo made constant games out of seeing what they could get away with, everyone on this campus did. Hell, all of the alumni still did, with their planar compressed homes and their perpetually filling bank accounts and their ability to do whatever and be whoever they wanted at any given time. Fucking with outsiders and seeing just how much magic they didn't notice was a right of passage at this place. Hell, even bringing outsiders into this world wasn't that big a deal, since you could just wipe their memories if things went sour. Still, theirs was a society built on frankly archaic notions, and if you rejected their invitation once, you were out for good. Sure, it was a lot of Victorian era etiquette based nonsense, but Eliot wasn't the one making the rules, and he sure as hell wasn't in a position to challenge them. Quentin was offered a place in the ranks of this establishment, and he turned them down, for, for- honestly, Eliot was going to need to review the student handbook himself, he wasn't entirely certain, but probably something trivial. It couldn't actually be drugs, given this place's reputation, so definitely something _stupid_. And now, the odds of this world offering him an additional formal invitation were precisely zero, and slumming with bottom feeders and hedges was the best he was going to get. As harsh as it was, stars or no stars, in the eyes of the establishment, Q was already a hedge, and Eliot needed to cut his losses.

Wasn't that just the proverbial cherry on this absolute shit excuse for a sundae? There might not have been a precedent for retesting failed students, not one he had bothered to look for yet, but Brakebills had a long and illustrious precedent for casting out individuals involved in hedge society. Last year alone, there had been quite the scandal when a third year student learned her girlfriend on the outside was a major player in one of New York's larger covens, and that the necklace she had give her was enchanted to let the entire safe house see everything she learned here. They brought in a specialist two months before she was set to graduate, and took everything from here. Her lack of awareness of the situation was no excuse. If anything, her ignorance made the decision more necessary in the eyes of the board. Now, he risked stepping into her same shoes, only he would be doing so with his eyes open, and Eliot wasn't prepared for that. Fuck, perhaps he had already screwed himself enough just by meeting the kid, by getting so caught up in a beautiful moment that he never stopped to consider the consequences? And to top it all off, against every ounce of his better judgement, screaming at him viscerally, he made the mistake of starting to like Quentin. He was funny, and passionate, and didn't fall at his feet. The boy was a mess, but he bit back, and sure he could give that up no problem, but-

But then he had to see the look on his face when he realized magic was real. It was joy, pure and simple. Not an ounce of the cynicism or darkness he saw in every other magician he came across, student or alumni. It was a joy Eliot hadn't felt since he was a small child, if he had ever known it. Seeing that on Quentin made him want to hope he could love something that innocently again, even for just a second. And now he was preparing to throw that away.

He had to, it was his only change at survival. It was a nice thought, but innocence would only get you eaten alive in this world. Ignorance may have been the greatest killer among magicians, but naivete was a close second, and Eliot Waugh was neither. He was a survivor, his own greatest creation, a man constantly reborn from the ashes of necessity, he somehow had several new text messages?

_Reformed Emo Quentin: Today - 8:32 PM - Holy sht yu wern't kdding abt invisbl fire_

_Reformed Emo Quentin: Today - 8:35 PM - Im nt gonna cst it but ths looks kinda easy shld I b wrried?_

_Reformed Emo Quentin: Today - 8:48 PM - Im at my dads ths wknd but im rlly lookng forwrd to seeing u whn i get bck_

Eliot traced the words over his phone, and almost wasn't embarrassed with himself. This ridiculous human, who had probably never heard of conditioner, had wormed his way into Eliot's walls completely unwelcome, and now he needed to tear him out. He hated what he had to do. He hated that he couldn't do it. He was fucked either way.


End file.
